


Special

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, No-Shame November, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub!Constance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“One for all.” She can feel him smile, feel it on the nape of her neck, silken and deadly. “And you know what that means, don’t you? Or do we need to teach you again?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my belated contribution to [No-Shame November](http://emilyenrose.tumblr.com/post/132671934673/no-shame-november-is-a-go).
> 
>  **Content notes** : Some name-calling (though as far as the characters are concerned, it's all in good fun).

“What’s the Musketeer motto?”

Constance knows the answer, of course she does; but she’s kneeling on the floor with her hands bound before her and her bodice hanging obscenely open at the front, Athos’ boots either side of her head, pinning her to the floor by the tail of her plait – and she knows he wants to hear her say it.

Her throat aches from cock-sucking, and her voice comes out husky, and too loud:

“All for one and one for all.”

“One for all.” She can _feel_ him smile, feel it on the nape of her neck, silken and deadly. “And you know what that means, don’t you? Or do we need to teach you again?”

She still can’t say it without shaking. Without her face burning with shame, her heart pounding as if it would burst out of her chest just to make it stop.

Without her cunt flooding her thighs just from thinking it, until the part of her brain that can’t ever quite stop keeping house is worrying about her wetness drip-drip-dripping on the rug beneath.

She grits her teeth and stares at a loose thread, and prays he won’t make her say it.

He doesn’t seem to care, at least not today; a few moments later he crouches down and takes her jaw in one hand, raising her up until their eyes meet, until the pull on her hair weaves delicious threads of pain into her scalp, and explains, “It’s simple: what belongs to one belongs to all.”

Anyone else would smirk – overplay their hand – but Athos’ eyes just remain steady on hers, her jaw held fast, letting the words do their work.

Watching as she’s forced to admit to herself once more that yes, she is _owned_ – and not just by her husband, but by them _all_.

It’s still too much. She needs –

“D’Artagnan?”

Athos’ eyes flick briefly past her shoulder. “Is otherwise engaged. He has his mouth somewhere unspeakable.” The beginnings of a smile tug at his lips. “But he might even fuck you later, if we decide you’ve earned it.”

 _Please_ , she can’t help thinking, feeling the lack of him as an ache suddenly, pulsing insistently between her spread thighs, and while she’s sure they’d like her to say it her tongue is wooden in her mouth, the weight of a lifetime of silence still pressing too heavily despite all they’ve done. The weight of Athos’ gaze, too, cutting precisely to her core; and if he asked her right now she’d gladly lower herself, _give_ herself, even kiss his boots just for a moment to breathe –

– and then he’s kissing her mouth, slow and sweet, his other hand coming up as well to frame her face, pull her in. His lips are soft and savouring, the whole thing so painfully tender that she forgets entirely her déshabillé, that they’re not alone in the room, that he’s not someone she’s permitted to love.

He kisses her calm, before sitting down beside her on the floor, guiding her head to his shoulder and cradling her there like she’s precious. His fingers weave into her hair, and his tone is so deceptively gentle that when he commands, “Tell me. When you married one of my soldiers, did you realise what you were letting yourself in for?”, it takes her a moment to remember just what this is.

“No,” she lies, pressing her lips against Athos’ fingertips when they brush across her mouth – and she cries out in shock when her skirts are pushed aside without warning and a stinging slap is delivered to her bare backside – and _that_ wasn’t Athos, it can’t have been –

“Let’s try that again,” Athos says, amused; and she gasps when strong fingers suddenly cup her sex, sending fire rushing through her – _not d’Artagnan_ , it’s Aramis or Porthos, though she doesn’t know which. “I think you knew exactly what would happen. I think it excited you. Am I right?”

“Yes,” she admits – just as he wants her to, screwing her eyes shut against the shame of it, huffing a jagged breath as the unknown fingers start to press into the slickness between the lips of her cunt, as Athos’ callused fingertips move in spirals over her cheek.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his other hand pushing easily down the neck of her chemise to cup her breast, his fingers brushing over her nipple – and she knows enough by now to know that her answering surge of desire is as much at Athos’ words as at his touch.

It’s strange, how much simpler everything feels when they touch her like this. How all she’s ever been taught – all the lies and rules that left her fearful and hungry for years – fall away, leaving only them, and their certainty.

The fingers slide over her clit as Athos asks, “Did you lie awake at night imagining it? All of us taking you in turn?”

“Yes.” Dimly she’s aware of the hair that’s damp on the back of her neck where his fingers brush over it, the ache in her knees and shoulders – and then those fingers move again and she forgets everything but her pleasure.

“Good. Did you touch yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.” The fingers that were caressing her pull back – and then slap, right over her clit, making her cry out in surprise and a little pain. “You’d say whatever you thought I wanted to hear, wouldn’t you?”

“…yes.”

“It’s alright. I can understand wanting to please me.” Athos’ hand is kneading her breasts in turn, the fingers between her legs sliding either side of her clit where she’s most sensitive, and she moans and jerks away from the touch, overwhelmed. “You want to be a good little slut for us, don’t you?”

“ _Please!_ ”

She hardly realises she’s said it aloud through the haze of lust surrounding her, until she registers d’Artagnan’s gasp behind her and _freezes_ –

– but Athos is right there with her, stroking her hair again as he says, “ _Just_ for us. Our special girl,” sure and satisfied; and she relaxes by degrees, sinking back down into the warmth of his certainty, wrapping it around her like a shawl. “We know you wouldn’t just give yourself to anybody. Only to the men who own you. You’d debauch yourself however we desired of you, isn’t that right?” His fingers are circling her nipple again, far too gently, and he chuckles when she pushes her chest into his touch. “Do you even know who’s touching your cunt right now?”

“Porthos,” she tries, with a certainty she doesn’t quite feel.

Athos gives her just a moment to doubt before replying, “Good answer. I think you’ve earned a reward. Put your arms around my neck.”

Though he’s told her to move she needs do very little, just lets him manoeuvre her into position, relishing being manhandled. He reaches down her chemise with both hands this time, pinching her nipples hard until she moans, just as Porthos hooks one finger inside her cunt and uses it to lift her arse right up until she’s forced to arch her back, pushing her skirts up to her waist, leaving her shockingly exposed.

Athos kisses her neck, the shell of her ear, murmuring so quietly she doubts even Porthos will hear, “You love this, don’t you? Being put in your place, ready to be used, to be _filled?_ Is that what you want?”

His hands are still moving, gently rolling her nipples; he knows just how to stop her thinking, how to help her down inside herself, to the _truth_ of herself, to that place where she can admit, “Yes please, monsieur.”

“Alright, precious.” It’s Porthos who replies – and however safe she feels, Constance flushes anew to realise he’s heard after all. “Then that’s what you’ll get.”

She just can’t help the noise she makes as Porthos pushes a second finger in alongside the first.

“Mm. Gushing like a mountain stream,” she hears him rumble as he starts to pump his fingers steadily in and out, making her head spin with the combined assault on her senses, Athos’ hands still kneading her breasts. “I think she likes it.”

“I think I concur.” Athos sucks her earlobe into his mouth, briefly sinking his teeth into it. “I’ve half a mind to tell you to hold still and just let her fuck herself on your fingers.”

Every time she thinks that she’s got this – that for a little while she just _is_ , without fear or shame – he manages to say something even more unthinkable, banishing any illusion of solid ground beneath her, sending her just a little more into freefall.

Porthos’ other hand is resting on her arse, the fingers digging into the meat of it. “Nah, I’d want her in my lap for that. Just sit her down on my prick and put my arms around her, and let her do the rest.”

The smile in his voice makes it somehow both better and worse; but then Athos is kissing her through her shame again, Porthos’ fingers pulling her back under with each one of his long, steady strokes, before he crooks them to rub over that place inside her that has her body catching alight, sensation dancing along every nerve.

For all that she’s theirs, when they touch her like this she mostly feels powerful. Like someone beyond shame, beyond all the strictures that bound her all her life, until they came and showed her that in bondage, she could be free.

They touched her and they called her special; and every time they touch her she feels it again, _knows_ it again, and takes it just a little deeper to heart.

She’s feeling that telltale tightness all over now, hot and insistent just beneath her skin, like she’s been holding something in before she even knew she was doing it, like she’s scared of what will happen if she lets it loose; but Athos is there for her before she even knows she’s let him see it, nuzzling at her cheek and jaw and commanding her, “Ask me.”

“Please,” she breathes, “may I come?”

She doesn’t _need_ it, not yet, but she _did_ need to ask; and she knows he likes to hear her ask for it just as much as he likes to deny her. He takes charge not for its own sake but because he likes to _give_ , and to her most of all, whom they all know is still learning how to take.

“No, you may not. Not yet.” She can feel him smiling against her neck, before he captures her lips with his once more and Porthos’ thumb – she thinks – presses against her clit over and over, making her cry out into Athos’ open mouth. Over the months since her marriage they’ve learnt her body as well as they know their own; they know that it’ll be a matter of moments until the heat they’ve stoked inside her becomes all-consuming, until she can’t, _can’t_ hold on –

“ _Please_ – Athos –”

“Ask me properly,” he insists, nipping at her lower lip, the spike of pain barely noticeable through the fog of desire overwhelming her senses.

“Please – may I _come –”_

His fingers tighten on her nipples, pinching hard.

“Yes. Come for me.”

Every time, she’s still afraid that she’ll fail, even having come so far. That she still holds too tightly to herself to ever be able to let go, even in their arms; that they’re wrong about everything they see in her, that she’s not brave or daring or brilliant, just nothing more than another ten-a-penny housewife who’s never learned any better.

She screws her eyes shut, and concentrates on the movement of Porthos’ fingers and the gasps of desire they wring from her, the sound of her own desire its proof.

When she hears d’Artagnan groaning somewhere behind her, she forgets to fail.

When the wave breaks, it always feels like relief. Bodily, but also something more: the tempest over, she is washed back to shore, the hands on her now smoothing along every inch of exposed skin, waves lapping at the sands.

She clings to Athos when her wrists are untied, pushing her face into his neck and keeping her eyes closed. The hardest part is always trying not to remember what they did just moments ago, now the haze of desire has faded, what they said.

Fortunately, they know just what to do.

“Alright. Let’s get you on the bed,” Athos murmurs, scooping her up like a child; and she doesn’t open her eyes until she’s delivered into d’Artagnan’s waiting arms.

“Hey.” He kisses her lips, then the tip of her nose as he gathers her close, strong arms encircling her, his grin infectious. He’s naked and glowing with satedness, Aramis stretched out on his back beside him. “That was amazing.”

She can’t help stiffening.

“You were _watching_?” she asks, voice a little too sharp – enough to make Aramis glance over, his hand stilling where it’s winding around a lock of d’Artagnan’s hair.

His face falls; she forces her voice back under control. “Athos said you were…” She trails off, unable to find a name for it that she can bring herself to say aloud.

“He was. He caught the end of it, though.” The bed dips behind her, a hand resting carefully on her shoulder; at the other side she sees Porthos climb on next to Aramis, moulding himself to his side. Athos prompts, “Tell her what you thought of it, d’Artagnan?”

“Gorgeous,” d’Artagnan answers without hesitation, sincerity in every line of his face – and the anger she was gathering around herself like a shield dissipates in moments as she realises just how thoroughly he means it.

He kisses her again, and smiles sadly. “And maybe one day you’ll believe me.”

“ _D’Artagnan,”_ Porthos growls, as if it isn’t true; and she hates the way she feels the others tense, no doubt wondering if she’ll snap, or cry, or close in on herself, as cold and hard as the day they met.

She isn’t that woman any more. They’ve all become part of each other, grown too closely intertwined, and to shut them out now would be to lose a part of herself.

So she bites her lip and says, “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“And you’ve come so far,” Aramis replies, leaning over d’Artagnan so he can look her in the eyes – and in the compassion in his face she can see the priest he almost became. “Don’t lose sight of that. It’s taken the four of us years of practice to become this degenerate.”

“Sorry.” D’Artagnan addresses his apology first to her, and then looks around, including all of them. “I don’t mean to be dismissive, I just want to help.”

“And you are,” Athos points out, his thumb stroking rhythmically over Constance’s bare shoulder. “But this isn’t your fight. All any of us can do for Constance is have her back, and give her the strength she needs to triumph.”

And though she’d never before quite understood how one could be victorious through surrender, the simple truth of Athos’ words shine through: the fight is hers, and she’s fighting for _herself_. To _be_ herself, without shame or fear; to have what she wants, not by taking but by giving.

“Exactly.”

When she kisses d’Artagnan again, she’s smiling.


End file.
